


Some Other Beginning's End

by awkward_iguana



Series: Monster Hospital [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: AU, M/M, Slow Burn, X-Men AU - Freeform, all romance will be slow burn af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_iguana/pseuds/awkward_iguana
Summary: A story of unwanted superpowers, falling in love, possibly starting a revolution and, most importantly, breaking out of prison.





	1. I: Tracers [Brad]

_Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change._

\- Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

 

“This is going to taste bitter,” the lab coat remarked offhandedly as she depressed the plunger of the syringe. Brad watched as the neon blue fluid slid down the I.V. and into vein at the crook of his left arm. He winced as the taste flooded his mouth - the lab coat was not moved by his apparent discomfort - it was a cross between metal and burnt popcorn.

“When it starts, try to let yourself pass out,” she said, using the same tone one would use to give advice about something mundane, like laundry.  _Wash your lights and darks separately - if you must wash them together, be sure to use cold water._  “It’s better if you don’t try to fight it.”

Brad would have asked her what she meant by that, but the mouth guard they’d placed on him earlier only allowed for gurgled, and rather undignified, noise of confusion. He still didn’t understand why the contraption was necessary. He was in here for hacking, not some Hannibal Lecter bullshit. Then it started - every single muscle in his body seemed to cramp and spasm in unison. Brad’s last coherent thought before following the lab coat’s advice was this:  _Oh, it’s so I don’t bite off my own tongue_.

* * *

The beginning of the end was a muggy July evening spent on his patio, drinking with Poke. Or was it the beginning of another beginning? Brad wasn’t so sure. Later, he would try to explain this to his cellmate. Ray would pause, carefully considering his response, before launching directly into the second verse of  _Closing Time_ . Brad would shut him up by flinging one of his shower flip flops at Ray’s face well before he reached the line that was his goal:  _Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end._  But that was later. Whether it was a beginning or an ending didn’t matter - it started with Poke.

Poke - Tony was his given name, but Brad couldn’t remember the last time he’d called him that - was his best friend. He’d had Brad’s back in the midst of firefights overseas, a handful bar brawls in the states, and when his ex-fiancée had left him feeling lower then he’d ever thought possible.  So, when Poke had shown up at his door, looking like he’d run the five miles that separated their houses, and said that he could use a drink, Brad stepped aside and reminded him that he knew exactly where the fridge was.

It wasn’t until they were sprawled out Brad’s lawn chairs and most of the way through a six pack that Poke started to talk, really talk. This did not include his obligatory critique of the white man, which was an opener for most conversations with Poke; much like an appetizer before the main course. “So, the Mutant Registration Act…”

Brad waited a moment, sure that there had to be more, but was met with silence, “Yes, Poke, the Mutant Registration Act.”

Poke rolled his eyes and elbowed his friend, “I mean, what do you think about it?”

“Well I don’t know, Poke,” Brad was unable to keep the bite out of his tone, “a group of people being othered by the general population and forced to carry identification labeling them as different and dangerous. How do you think I feel about that?”

“Shit dawg,” Poke said quietly, after taking a sip of his beer, “That was a stupid question, huh?”

Brad shrugged, a nonverbal signal that related both agreement and forgiveness.  _It’s alright - because it’s you._ At this point he was pretty worried about Poke. The man could be cutting in his remarks, but he was rarely, if ever, truly insensitive. Poke was perceptive enough to determine just where the line was and clever enough to toe it. Something was wrong. Poke was scared. One of the most fearless motherfuckers he’d ever fought beside was scared.

“I need your help, Brad,” he admitted, but wouldn’t look his fellow marine in the eye. Another warning sign - eye contact had never been something Poke shied away from. Instead, he focused on the now empty beer bottle in his hands, picking at the label.  _Fuck, it’s gotta be bad then._

Brad pulled the last beer out of the six pack and held it out to Poke, gaining his attention, “Consider it done.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking,” Poke accepted the beer, twisting it open, and added quietly, “it’s a lot.”

“Doesn’t matter.” And it honestly didn’t.

“It’s illegal.”

“Since when do you care about the corrupt system of government created by the white man for the purposes of his own advancement?” Brad drawled, startling a laugh out of Poke.

Poke downed half of his beer before continuing, “One of the other teachers at Lisa’s school reported her as a possible mutant.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, ‘fuck’ is right,” he agreed, “She’s got an  _interview_  - whatever that means - scheduled for next week to determine whether or not the report is credible.”

Brad suppressed the urge to ask whether or not it was, indeed, credible. At the end of the day it didn’t matter. Mutant or not, Lisa was a good person - one of the best he knew. She gave everything she had to others - to her students, her husband, her daughters. Brad’s feelings towards the institute of marriage and monogamous relationships aside, Poke loved Lisa. Losing her would kill him.

“She can’t go to that interview, man,” Poke added softly, answering his friend’s unspoken question, “she just can’t.”

“Then she won’t,” Brad reached out and clasped Poke’s shoulder, making sure he held the other man’s gaze, “she won’t, Poke, I swear it.”

* * *

 Hacking into the Mutant Registration Act database was considered a felony. It hadn’t actually been all that difficult to force his way into the system and delete all traces of Lisa. Doing so without getting himself caught was Brad’s undoing. He thought he’d taken enough precautions to mask his location and identity, but the SWAT team busting down his door later that afternoon indicated otherwise. It was worth it though. There wasn’t a SWAT team knocking down Poke’s door. His little girls wouldn’t have to watch their mom get dragged away - they wouldn’t marked and placed under surveillance  because of the possibility hidden in their genetic code.

Poke showed up to Brad’s sentencing hearing - he kept a low profile, slipping in amongst the media circus that had been invited into the courtroom. Brad was being made an example of. He would serve as a cautionary tale,  _this is what could happen to you if you throw your lot in with_ _them_ _._  Poke wasn’t able to get close enough to talk to him. A tightness settled in his chest when he considered that he would probably never be able to speak to him again, for fear of bringing more unwanted attention down on Lisa. Their eyes met across the courtroom. Poke was clearly - at least to Brad - trying to convey how sorry he was and that he’d fix this. Brad could only hope that he would understand what he was trying to send back.  _It’s okay_  and, most importantly,  _don’t._

* * *

 Brad was thrust back into consciousness, his body reflexively trying to curl into a fetal position only to be cruelly held in place by his restraints. His mind zeroed in on two things immediately. The first being the absence of the mouth guard. The second being the giant fucking needle sticking out of his chest. He flashed back briefly to watching T.V. with his mother as a kid, running his fingers through the shag carpet that covered their living room floor and paying only partial attention. Her favorite show was E.R. and every so often one of the doctors - after dramatically banging on the dying patient’s chest and maybe even growing teary eyed - would request however many c.c’s of epinephrine. The other doctors present would try to convince them that it was too little too late, that the patient was gone. They would try anyways. Sometimes, because this was a television show and in television miracles are more commonplace, the patient would  come back.

“Huh,” Brad was startled out of his memory by the utterance of a lab coat, different than the one that had injected him with the blue serum, “I thought for sure he was going to kick it.”

“I told you,” a lab coat outside of his field of vision responded. Brad turned his head slowly, his body still not at the same level of alertness as his mind, for visual confirmation that it was the first lab coat. She held out her hand, arm outstretched in the space above Brad’s chest like he was some kind of countertop and not a human being strapped to a gurney, “You owe me fifty bucks.”

The second lab coat grumbled, but pulled a wad of cash out of his pants pocket. Brad wanted to verbally object to having a casual bet placed on his life - if he was being honest the thing that upset him the most was the amount of money changing hands, surely he was worth more than that - but, like the rest of his body, his lips and tongue felt too clumsy and slow. He also wanted to ask what the fuck was going on. When Brad volunteered to be a part of a drug trial in exchange for commuting his sentence, he hadn’t expected the experience to be entirely pleasant. He was a convicted felon after all. This - what had just happened - was complete and utter bullshit. There was no way this could be legal.  _I still have rights. I’m still a person._

“Doubtful,” the second lab coat responded, signaling that Brad’s brain and mouth had reconnected enough to allow the tail end of his train of thought to escape. The man - the kid really, he couldn’t be much over twenty - had his attention focused on the machine’s monitoring Brad’s vital signs. The first lab coat stood on his other side, taking notes down on what appeared to be some kind of medical chart, her gaze scanning up and down his body. Wondering what was of such great interest, he lifted his head as much as his diminished strength and the restraints would allow.

A sound the he couldn’t explain or stop rose up from inside his chest. It was a keen of sorts, a hurt sound. The second lab coat made a derisive comment that Brad was not able to process in his current headspace. The first lab coat, who appeared to be the marginally more professional one, hushed her counterpart. A layer of frost covered his entire body - the ice spiderwebbing across the gray scrubs he’d been forced into and crystallizing against his exposed skin. Part of his mind railed against what he was seeing, certain that this had to be some kind of trick. The other part accepted what his eyes were seeing, but still balked at what that would imply.

What rose up above the warring factions of his mind was a memory - leaning up against against a humvee beside Poke. An hour separating them from their latest firefight and the rush of adrenaline fizzling out to a dull crawl underneath their skin. It was just enough for them to still revel in the frantic giddiness that only comes from absolutely fucking someone else’s shit up.  _Those motherfuckers didn’t stand a chance, dog. Think you have a chance against the Iceman? Nah man, Iceman sees you before you see him. Legendary. Fucking legendary._

The keening sound cut out, only to be replaced with laughter that bubbled up from the same place. Lab coats one and two exchanged glances that were confused and somewhat scandalized, but Brad didn’t a give a fuck. He continued to the point of hysterics, his shoulders shaking and tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, freezing once they hit his skin. It was plain undignified, but, for whatever reason, it was the beginning of the end for the ‘resigned to my fate’ bullshit that Brad had been wallowing in since his first day in prison.  _Iceman._ Poke was going to get a real kick out of that when Brad busted out and told him about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!


	2. II: A Little Too Ironic [Ray]

Solitary confinement - to put it mildly - sucked ass. It sucked so much that Ray almost missed Trombley. To give the small, windowless cell some credit, it didn’t snear about his sexuality when he belted out Alanis Morissette lyrics - which spoke volumes about his current headspace. It didn’t offer any feedback period and that’s what Ray found himself craving. It was getting to the point that he probably would have wept with relief if one of the guards pounded on the door to shut him up. He had no idea how long he’d been here or how much longer he had left, only that if you added those values together, the sum would be a week -  _ should  _ be a week.

There was a time, in the hopefully not so distant past, that Ray had sought out to find some joy in the hellhole he was now forced to call home. The source of his joy was the general mockery of the guards and the assignment of unfortunate nicknames based upon physical characteristics and or personality traits. In hindsight, he could have used a bit more tact when sharing this newfound joy  with his fellow inmates. To say that Encino Man and Captain America were not pleased to discover their new monikers would be an understatement. Ray was pretty sure that they were more angry about not being able to understand the genius behind the nicknames than the fact that they were being made fun of. Whether the source of their fury was being forced to confront their inferior intellects or not, the solution to the problem - their authority being undermined - was to throw the source into solitary confinement. Ray’s original plan was to use the duration of his punishment to generate some new material, but that had fallen to pieces pretty early on. Turns out his creative process required more stimulation than four blank walls could offer.

Just as Ray was about launch into the pitchiest rendition of  _ You Oughta Know _ that he could muster, a guard slid the small panel near the top of the door open - the scraping sound shattering the still intact silence - “Stand against the back wall inmate.”

Ray hated how quickly he obeyed the direction - he didn’t even pause before turning to face the wall farthest from the door and pressing his hands hands to it. He considered making a snarky comment of sorts - perhaps posing a connection between the current power dynamic and bdsm - but quickly decided against it. There wasn’t anything stopping the guard from extending his stay in solitary confinement if he felt like it. Those working for the Inmate Rehabilitation Project weren’t terribly concerned with human rights. 

The guard gave Ray a quick pat down and checked to make sure the anklet he was forced to wear was still working. The green monitor light blinked at a steady pace, indicating that it was doing its job of confining him to the limitations of the average human being.  _ Do you honestly think I would still be here if it wasn’t working you stupid fucker? _ The guard folded Ray’s arms behind his back and cuffed him before escorting him out of the cell. He was embarrassed about how freeing just stepping out into the hallway felt. This place was fucking him up big time.

To Ray’s knowledge, there were two cell blocks in the prison section of the Project’s base of operation. In a normal prison, the cell blocks would have been called A and B respectively, but everything Godfather - a self-appointed nickname - did had to be a bit extra. Before becoming the warden of the world’s most fucked up prison, he was a marine; so the cell block names followed the military phonetic alphabet. Ray lived in cell block Alpha - or so he thought. The guard was walking him straight through, towards Bravo.

“Um, I think you missed my stop?” Ray spoke up as they were buzzed through the first set of doors that lead to Bravo.

“You’ve been reassigned.”

“What about Trombley?” 

“He’s been transferred,” the guard answered tersely, shoving Ray ahead of him and into Bravo.

Ray felt his stomach drop with the guard’s words.  _ He’s been transferred.  _ It wasn’t uncommon for inmates to pulled from the general population for days at a time for testing, but every so often one would disappear in a more permanent way. When this occurred, the guards would say they’d been ‘transferred.’ No further explanation was ever offered. In a place like this, one could only hope that ‘transferred’ was a euphemism for ‘one of the lab coats fucked up and killed him’ rather than a more insidious, and honestly more likely, possibility.

Trombley wasn’t Ray’s friend and, as far as cellmates go, he was actually pretty awful, but he didn’t exactly hate him either. The best way to describe his relationship with Trombley would be to compare it the one he had with the stray cat that lived in his neighborhood while he was growing up. As a young kid, Ray’s personality quirks had gotten in the way of making friends - he talked too much, got too excited, and said things that didn’t need saying. Hurting for company, he’d taken an interest in the stray cat he’d often see as he walked to and from school. The cat - which he named Hamburger - hated all people and was probably a stray by choice. Almost all of the attempts he  made to show Hamburger some affection were rebuffed - violently. Every so often though, Ray would find a dead mouse or bird on his front stoop. 

That’s how his relationship with Trombley was. Most of the time he was a borderline psychotic asshole, but, every so often, he would make a gesture suggested that he didn’t completely hate Ray’s guts. Those gestures were largely off putting and, at  time, a little gross - like when he’d driven the sharpened end of a toothbrush into the eye of an inmate who’d hassled Ray in the showers - but they were gestures nonetheless. Trombley was just a screwed up kid who accidentally killed some guy in a bar fight and wasn’t all that sorry about it. He deserved the jail time he’d originally been sentenced with, but not this place - not what was probably being done to him now.

“Does this mean I get a single?” Ray asked, the comparatively wide open space of the cell block making him feel a bit more like his old self. 

“No,” the guard shoved him forward again, almost making him trip over his feet, “You’re breaking in a new guy.”

Ray was not looking forward to that. ‘Breaking in a new guy’ could be dangerous work. It didn’t just mean explaining Godfather’s rules or covering basic fucked up science experiment/prison etiquette. It meant being present for the growing pains portion of whatever mutation this new inmate had been ‘gifted’ with. Trombley had only been a danger to himself. Sure his reflexes were well beyond that of an average human, but his nerve endings were deadened in such a way that he couldn’t feel pain. He’d gotten shived in a fight and walked away with it buried in his shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact the he was bleeding out. When Ray had pointed this out to him - feeling it was his duty to inform his cellie that he was mortally wounded - Trombley had displayed only mild concern.  _ Oh. Guess that’s why I kinda feel like passing out _ . 

There was no telling what would be up with this new guy though and Ray wasn’t expecting the guard to clue him in on anything. In Alpha there was an urban legend - a prison legend, if you will - about how one of the first inmates accidentally incinerated his cellmate when the guy startled him with a sneeze. Contrary to Trombley’s frequent insults, Ray was not just a dumb hick who believed every little thing he heard. Convicts gossiped more than the  widow’s knitting circle at the church Ray’s mother had dragged him to every Sunday - pointing this out, he learned the hard way, earned one a broken nose. Sure there was probably some dude walking around this place with burn scars, but it was pretty damn unlikely that someone had been completely barbequed. That being said, none of them were in here because they weren’t dangerous.

“That’ll be him,” the guard gestured to an inmate walking towards them, headed from the direction of Research and Development, “your new best buddy.”

Ray didn’t laugh at the guard’s attempt at humor - earning him another rough shove forward and closer to his potential doom. The new guy was a fucking giant, towering over the two guards escorting him to his cell. An extra guard meant he’d given the lab coats some trouble. Which explained why the guy couldn’t seem to walk straight - listing in between the two increasingly annoyed guards. The sedatives the lab coats used were no joke and took for-fucking-ever to wear off. Ray could attest to that.  _ Okay - so my cellie an angry, hungover giant. Perfect. Fucking perfect. _

Both groups stopped in front of an empty cell. Like all the rest, it was six by eight feet and fitted with the bare essentials - a toilet, sink, and bunk bed. Unlike a standard prison cell, the open wall was not sealed with a barred door, but rather a than one made of reinforced glass. It allowed for each cell’s climate to be carefully controlled, which was necessary for keeping some of the inmates in line. It also allowed for knock out gas to be pumped into each individual cell for the purposes of subduing unruly inmates and or making them more compliant when it was time for them to head over to R&D for testing. Ray’s mutation could be controlled by the decidedly unfashionable anklet he was forced to wear, but that wasn’t the case for everyone. New guy wasn’t fitted with an external control device, at least not anywhere visible.

The cell’s door slid open. Ray stepped just inside, waiting to be uncuffed. New guy didn’t seem so pleased with the idea. One of the guards gave him a shove, which would have been comical in its ineffectiveness if it didn’t have both guards reaching for their shock sticks. Ray had his doubts that they would be discriminative when putting them to use.

“Hey homes, c’mon in. Mi casa es su casa,” the new guy didn’t move, but he did turn his attention towards Ray. He blinked slowly and Ray could see that his pupils were almost completely blown.  _ How much did they give this guy? _ Ray inclined his head towards the shock sticks being brandished by the guards, “getting hit with one of those doesn’t exactly tickle. No judgment if you’re into that kind of thing though.”

Ray could have sworn he saw the corner of new guy’s mouth quirk upwards into something like a smile, but his ‘hungover and contemplating the murder of each and every individual in this facility’ look slid back into place too quickly to be sure. New guy had one hell of a resting bitch face. Motivated by either the threat of physical harm or Ray’s sparkling personality, he took a step forward into the cell. The guards made quick work of their handcuffs and the cell door slid shut.

Ray looked at new guy. New guy looked at Ray.  _ Okay, so we’re not exactly a chatty Cathy.  _ Ray pointed towards the top bunk and called dibs. New guy was either too drugged up to understand his cellmate’s claim or he did not respect the sanctity of calling dibs - he’d put money on the latter - because he shouldered past Ray and climbed up into the top bunk, promptly passing out. 

“Yeah...guess we’ll talk about it later.”

* * *

In his dream, Ray was back home. He was in the middle of the street in front of his old house, his mother a few feet away and facing him western standoff style. She was wearing the dress she wore to his sentencing hearing, hoping that wearing her Sunday best might convince the judge that Ray was something other than white trash. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, but the dream wouldn’t let him. She stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment before looking skyward. She held her hand out, palm up.  _ It’s going to rain soon. _ For whatever reason, this made her smile.

Ray woke up to water dripping on his face. He must have cursed pretty loudly as he fell out of his bunk and onto his ass in his half-asleep haste to get away from the unwanted sensation because his cellie jolted awake as well. The top half of the bunk bed was covered in a sheet of ice about a quarter inch thick. Shards of it fell to the floor as new guy sat up. He grumbled as he unstuck himself from the frozen bunk, completely ignoring Ray, who had moved to stand by the far wall. 

“So...you make ice?” Ray broke the silence shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. His ‘you’re a mutant now, son’ talk had not been all that well received by Trombley and he didn’t have a good enough read on new guy to determine how he was going to take it.

“That would seem to be the case,” new guy answered, seeming more nonplussed regarding his present situation than confused or horrified.

“Cool.” New guy raised an eyebrow at that and Ray proceeded to mentally kick his own ass. “Shit. Fuck. I didn’t mean it like that.”

New guy stared at him for a few moments - probably deciding whether or not to deliver a beat down in retaliation for the poorly timed pun - before letting out a soft chuckle, “It’s okay.”

Ray relaxed a bit, maybe new guy wasn’t quite as homicidally inclined as he originally seemed, “I’m Ray.

“Brad...sorry about the uh,” Brad gestured to the slowly thawing bunk bed, seeming a bit embarrassed, “I didn’t realize this was going to happen every time I fell asleep.”

“It’s coo-  _ fine _ . It’s fine,” Ray amended quickly, “You’ll probably learn to control it. Give it some time.”

Brad nodded, seeming to accept this, and pried a particularly large shard of ice off of his sorry excuse for a mattress, “So … what do you do?”

Ray was caught off guard by the question, “I, uh, I used to be a tattoo artist.”

“No, I meant…” Brad gestured to the large piece of ice melting in his hand and Ray almost slapped himself on the forehead.

“Oh, that! The lab coats call it molecular density manipulation, which is just a fancy ass way of saying I can walk through shit,” Brad’s eyebrow quirked upward at that, “I know, I know. Ironic right? A guy who can walk through walls stuck in prison. Just wait ‘til you hear what I’m in for homes - you’re going to laugh your fucking ass off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who left kudos and commented on the first chapter. Your kindness means a lot to me. I hope you enjoyed the second chapter!


	3. III: Head First [Nate]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: gore and discussion of body horror  
> If you find either of those things triggering, send me a message and I'll tell you which parts of the chapter to avoid

Nate awoke to the sound of Walt dry heaving into the toilet - horrible, hiccuping gasps rising up in between barking coughs. His stomach gave a sympathetic roll, but the first feeling Nate’s half awake mind was able to pinpoint was relief. Walt had been gone for five days. It wasn’t uncommon for Research and Development to hold onto him for extended periods of time. The lab coats seemed to enjoy picking Walt apart to see how quickly his body was able to patch itself back together. When it became too slow to be relevant to their research - or started to lack entertainment value - Walt was sent back to his cell to finish recuperating.

Nate climbed down from his bunk, taking care not to slip and to make just enough noise that Walt would hear him coming. He always startled badly after returning from a stay in R&D. Nate, of course, hadn’t known this when they first became cellmates and earned himself black eye trying to help a shivering, hurt Walt to his bunk after the guards had unceremoniously dumped him into their cell.  _How long ago did that happened?_   _Four months ago? Six?_  Walt still apologized for it on a regular basis, despite Nate’s assurances that he didn’t take it personally.

Walt was huddled by the toilet, nearly curled around it. One of his arms was pressed against his middle, probably serving to alleviate some of the pain and to guard it. Lately the lab coats had been fond of opening him up, placing foreign objects - shrapnel, spare change, and, on one horrifically memorable occasion, a wrist watch - inside of him and timing how long it took his body to remove it. Nate sat down on the floor about two feet away from Walt. Through trial and error, he’d found that this was a good distance to start with. Close enough that Walt was aware of his presence and, he hoped, gained some comfort from it and far enough away that he didn’t feel threatened. He would wait for Walt to acknowledge him before moving any closer.

In between dry heaving spells, he spoke up, “sorry ‘bout waking you up.”

Nate picked at the hem of his sleeve, unsure of how to proceed. He’d been told he was a good leader - earnest enough to inspire confidence, competent enough to inspire trust, and aggressive enough to inspire action - but stepping into the role of caretaker had never come naturally. Hell, he was pretty shit at taking care of himself. How many allnighters had he pulled in college? How many many meals had he unintentionally skipped because he was too engrossed in a book or a conversation? How many times had he worked himself to complete and utter exhaustion, always a touch surprised when his body gave out on him?  _ Too many,  _ his mother would say.  _ It’s okay to stop every once and a while, y’know _ , his sister would chime in. His father would remind him solemnly,  _ Keep running yourself into the ground and soon there’ll be nothing left. _  Nate struggled to intuit the needs of others, as he so easily lost sight of his own.  _ It’s alright to stop, Nate. Please, for the love of God… just stop for a minute. _

Walt shivered, a cue that was easy enough to follow, so Nate offered him his jacket. Their prison uniform included one. It wasn’t much, but it helped keep out some of the cell block’s cold. Walt was wearing his when he was taken to R&D days ago and it hadn’t returned with him. He shook his head, pushing the jacket back towards Nate with a shaky hand.

“I don’t wanna ruin it,” he explained, managing a wobbly smile at the gesture.

Nate pulled the jacket into his lap, fists crushing the cheap material, “they didn’t leave something inside you again, did they?”

“No, no,” Walt assured him, ever trying to cool his cellmate’s temper, “they learned their lesson after you used that nickel to short out your collar…”

Nate unconsciously reached up towards the external control device that sat around his neck. It was made of smooth metal, with no panels to pry open or visable weak points. This was the third collar he’d been fitted with since gaining his mutation. Thus far, he hadn’t discovered any obvious vulnerabilities to exploit.

“... I think the last thing really jacked something up on it’s way out though,” Walt rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand and it came away with a streak of color, “I’ve been tasting blood in my mouth for the last hour.”

Walt spat into the toilet bowl and then shifted himself so he was leaning against the wall. His arms were still crossed across him middle protectively. He looked like shit - pale, shaky, dark circles under his eyes, fresh blood at the corner his mouth - and it pissed Nate off. Being helpless wasn’t a feeling that Nate cared for and it colored every single moment he spent in this god forsaken place. It often struck him how ironic it was that he’d been gifted with this great power at a point in his life when he had no semblance of control. His friend - he hadn’t expected to make any friends in prison, but that’s what Walt was - was suffering and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it from happening again. All he could do was react and his capacity to do even that was limited. Though perhaps, in this moment, he could do enough.

Nate sat against the wall beside Walt, leaving some space in between them. It would be up to his cellmate whether or not to close the distance. He didn’t always, but there were times when physical contact seemed to bring him some level of comfort. Today was one of those days. Walt leaned in, resting his cheek against Nate’s shoulder. Nate liked to think that he felt at least a little bit of the tension leave his friend’s body.

“So,” Walt spoke up after a few minutes of silence, “anything happen while I was gone?”

Nate resisted the urge to shrug, not wanting jostle the other man, “two new guys moved into Kocher and Redman’s old cell.”

“They put two new guys in the same cell?” Walt was justifiably surprised. It was standard practice to place new inmates with more  _ experienced  _ \- Nate couldn’t think of any other way to put it - ones to help ease the transition. Mike Wynn was his original cellmate. He was a good man who tried his best to keep Nate out of trouble. He was largely unsuccessful, but not for lack of effort.  _ Y’know Nate, never in my life have I met someone quite as determined to have his ass handed to him as you are _ , Mike had said to him while pressing a rag underneath Nate’s broken nose and coxing him to lean forward with a gentle hand. That was the day he broke his first collar and managed shatter the reinforced glass door of his cell. He’d only meant to trip the locking mechanism, but the guards who stormed in immediately afterwards didn’t appreciate the platitude.  _ You keep rushing into these things head first, you’re going to get yourself killed.  _ Nate missed Mike. He’d been moved to Alpha just before Walt’s arrival, either as a consequence for not getting his cellmate to toe the line or out of recognition that he was even keeled enough to handle inmates with stronger personalities, like Nate.

“No - only one of the guys is  _ new _ , the other guy got reassigned from Alpha,” Nate explained, “but other than that, it’s been pretty uneventful. No transfers.”

He couldn’t see Walt’s face given their positioning, but he could feel it shift - Walt was grinning - “How about these new guys - either of them cute?”

Nate snorted, “this is prison, not high school.”

“Yeah well, being gay in the south sure made it feel the same,” Walt elbowed him gently, “now answer my question. Am I going to have something nice to look at over breakfast or not?"

Nate had to quickly cover his mouth to stop a peel of laughter from escaping . It wouldn’t do to draw attention from the guards on duty. After taking a moment to compose himself, Nate hissed, “You can’t just say stuff like that Walt.”

“Sorry,” he stage whispered and settled a bit more against Nate, probably assuming the conversation was over.

“...They’re both good looking,” Nate admitted, feeling his cheeks color slightly, “but one’s more my type than the other.”

“Which one?”

Nate resumed picking at the hem of his shirt. He still wasn’t completely comfortable discussing finding other men attractive, as it was something he’d only just started admitting to himself before his arrest, but it seemed to be cheering Walt up. He could push through his discomfort for a friend.

“The guy from Alpha.”

“You talked to him yet?”

“I don’t even know his name,” Nate admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed.

Walt seemed to sense this and quickly offered a solution, “we’ll talk to him tomorrow then. If they’re new neither of them’ll have a set table or group yet. They can sit with us.”

“And how are we going to get them to do that?” Nate asked, honestly unsure. The Inmate Rehabilitation Project functioned differently from a standard prison in the sense that social groups weren’t typically decided by race and cultural background. It seemed that having one’s genetic code modified helped most redefine their priorities and prejudices. There were still some assholes, of course, but they formed their own little groups and kept mostly to themselves. Other social groups, probably more akin to cliques - so maybe Walt’s high school comparison was more apt than he originally thought - were determined either by the nature of mutation or the crime(s) committed that lead to incarceration. Nate never had much interest in joining any group and Walt had followed suit against his advice, so the two were essentially misfits. Stafford and Christeson had started to hang out with them recently during yard time, but their group was still too small to offer much protection or status. If either of those things mattered to the new guys, it was doubtful they’d accept their invitation.

“You’ll figure something out,” Walt yawned, “I mean you convinced a group of mutants and non-mutants to break into, trash, and expose a top secret government test facility, with the knowledge that they would probably be caught and arrested. Give yourself some credit - you can be pretty persuasive when you want to be...”

Nate huffed quietly in response. He didn’t have to see Walt’s face to know that his eyelids were starting to droop and he was happy to let this conversation petre out. Sure, he could lead men into battle, so to speak, but he was pretty sure talking to a cute guy he’d seen at the other end of the cell block once was an entirely different thing.

* * *

 

It actually wasn’t that difficult to get some facetime with the new guys. Nate and Walt typically took the path of least resistance approach when choosing a table, sitting at whatever one wasn’t occupied by a more established group. The new guys seemed to have adopted a similar approach and were already seated at the only unclaimed table. Out in the real world, Nate and Walt would have approached the table, introduced themselves, and politely asked to join them. Much to the dismay of his cellmate - who was the embodiment of a well-mannered southern man - such niceties had no place in prison. Instead, they sat across from the two men without any preamble and engaged in the obligatory macho-bullshit standoff. It would end one out of three ways: either pair might simply decide to leave the table, one pair might try to force the other out (through either verbal or physical means), or somebody might start up a conversation. Nate was hoping for the latter.

“So,” the guy from Alpha broke the standoff, drawing out his first word, “I’m Ray. Tall, blonde, and terrifying over here is Brad.”

Brad looked mildly annoyed at his introduction, but didn’t make any attempt to contradict it, “You want us to leave or what?”

“Now Bradley,” Ray mock-scolded, including a finger wag, “that’s no way to make new friends.”

Brad grumbled something about not wanting new friends and not being all that interested in Ray’s friendship either before busying himself with the mush the cafeteria staff called breakfast, but there wasn’t any real heat behind it. Nate allowed himself to relax a bit, at the very least neither of these guys appeared to be openly hostile. Ray even seemed friendly, if a bit odd.

“I’m Walt, this is Nate,” Walt offered, keeping the conversation going, and eyed Brad’s breakfast tray, “in the future, if you’ve got a choice, always take the fruit cup over the yogurt. It’s almost always expired.”

Brad flipped the small, generic yogurt cup over and found that it was, indeed, past due. He nodded his thanks to Walt before turning to Ray, “You could’ve told me that."

Ray shrugged, digging into his breakfast mush, “I’m not looking to get in between a man and his dairy. Plus, it’s not  _ always _  expired. It’s like russian roulette - but with the threat of gastrointestinal distress instead of death. Makes breakfast more exciting.”

Brad rolled his eyes before turning his attention back onto Walt and Nate, “so, what’s your deal?”

At the Inmate Rehabilitation Project facility, there wasn’t much sense in discussing small talk topics such as the weather or where one was from. The former only mattered to inmates who were allowed yard time - those with either external control devices or mutations that weren’t particularly useful when it came to scaling or breaking through the two story cement walls that surrounded the yard - and the latter got depressing quickly. Who knew if they were ever going to get to go back home again. The two socially acceptable conversation starters were as follows:  _ What did you do?  _ and  _ What can you do? _

“Oh, I’ll start,” Ray said, a smear of breakfast mush at the corner of his mouth - Nate desperately wanted to say something about it, but he wasn’t sure if that would draw attention to the fact that he’d been paying a bit too much attention to the other man’s face - “I can walk through walls and shit.  _ And  _ I robbed a bank - well, I tried to. The escape plan was somewhat flawed.”

“Clearly,” Brad commented and Ray kicked him under the table.

“Shut up, you overgrown freak.”

Brad reached down to rub his shin, “that hurt you whiskey tango motherfucker.”

Nate and Walt watched the exchange, unsure of whether they were witnessing the beginnings of an all out brawl or just some hostile-yet-oddly-companionable verbal sparring. Their question was answered when Brad threw his napkin at Ray’s face, “Is it at all possible for you to eat without making a complete mess of yourself?”

“Nope,” Ray answered cheerfully, using the napkin to wipe off his face, “it’s your turn.”

“I hacked into the Mutant Registration Act database and now I can...make ice,” Brad was visibly unhappy with that description, but didn’t seem to have a better one. The lab coats must not have given him an official classification yet.

“Cryokinesis, maybe?” Nate offered up, falling back on the Greek and Latin classes he’d taken in college.

Brad gave an appreciative nod, “that sounds better, thanks.”

“No problem,” Nate was dying to ask why Brad and Ray why they had committed their respective felonies, but that would be considered bad form at this point in the conversation, “I committed treason and now I’m telekinetic.”

“Treason? That’s dope,” Ray commented, as if Nate was sharing some cool weekend plans and not a crime potentially punishable by death.

“I would imagine the judge didn’t share that sentiment.”

Nate laughed - so Brad had a dry sense of humor and Ray had a one that could only be described as wacky, he could handle that - “Well he did refer to me as a ‘traitor to all of humanity’ during sentencing, so probably not.”

Then all eyes fell on Walt and Nate immediately felt a stab of guilt. He’d forgotten how uncomfortable these conversations made his friend. Even after sharing a cell with Walt for months, he still didn’t know what he did to get put in prison. Before meeting him, Nate hadn’t properly understood what it meant for a person to look haunted. That was the only word that could be used to describe Walt when the subject arose. One night, after a particularly nasty run in with R&D Walt had tearfully confessed:  _ I didn’t mean to. I swear to God Nate, I didn’t mean to.  _  Given that the confession was interrupted by Walt spitting out a mouthful of blood, Nate hadn’t felt the need to press for further explanation.

Before Nate could draw attention back onto himself, Walt spoke up, “the lab coats call it ‘healing factor.’ Basically it doesn’t matter how badly I get hurt, I can bounce back from it...”

Again, Nate tried to turn the conversation a different direction, but was interrupted by Ray, “So if you get a papercut, it just heals right away?”

“...yeah?”

“Dude! That must rock,” Ray exclaimed, startling Walt into smiling nervously, “papercuts are the fucking worst. They hurt forever and don’t even get me started on when you try and wash your hands after getting one - ”

Nate honestly couldn’t tell if Ray genuinely excited by the implication that Walt no longer had to deal with the minor annoyance of paper cuts or if he had somehow picked up on Walt’s discomfort and was providing a rather effective smokescreen. Maybe it was both. Either way, the haunted look had passed.

“ - anyways, are we cool now or what? Actually, wait - first, are either of you homophobic or racist? Because I seriously do not need that kind of negativity in my life.”

Both Nate and Walt shook their heads, “Great! So we’re cool then, right?”

Nate looked at Walt, who nodded, “I guess we are.”

“Look at that Brad, it’s only your second day of school and you’ve made three friends,” Ray wiped a fake tear away from his eye, “I’m so proud of you.”

“Joy.” Brad said sarcastically, but Nate could have sworn he saw a flicker of a smile.

“Okay, important question, think carefully about your answer,” Ray leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, “Would you rather fight 100 duck sized horses or 1 horse sized duck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough one. Writing in Nate's perspective is surprisingly hard. I hope I did him justice!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for those of you who have commented and left kudos. Your kindness and support means a lot to me!


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